


Not Today

by rlnerdgirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Deputy Allison Argent, M/M, Sheriff Stiles Stilinski, Western AU, smut for smut's sake, western smut, wild mountain man Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rlnerdgirl/pseuds/rlnerdgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Derek’s cabin is close by. The fire’s been burning for at least half an hour and there’s no way Derek wouldn't have seen it and not investigate. The man likes his privacy and he’s not one for tolerating folk in and around his territory. His night vision may be shot by the fire in front of him, but Stiles knows that somewhere, in the half-lit shadows of the night, Derek’s prowling. Hunting.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Today

The stars and full moon give off enough light that the fire isn’t necessary. God knows the heat doesn’t need any help. It’s still early enough in the night that the ground, after a full day under the glare of the summer sun, radiates with it. Add to it the scorching dry air will barely cool by sunrise, and the moon may be up but his cotton shirt’s still sticking to his back and sweat’s still dripping into his eyes. Stiles blinks at the salty sting but otherwise keeps his attention trained on the steady aimed barrel of the six shooter half a foot from his face.

 

There are four of them, which isn’t a surprise. Stiles and Allison had been guessing between three and five, leaning on five because life is easier to face when you expect the worst. Usually because that’s what you get. It still stings that he’s here, hands tied behind his back so tight that the tips of his fingers are numb, knees aching from their extended relationship with the pebbled, rock-hard sun-baked ground.

 

“What ‘cha grinnin’ at lawman? Think your woman playin’ cowgirl’s gonna come save y’ur sorry hide?” The man in front of him has a nose that’s been broken a few too many times to be ruggedly manly and a nasty scar above his left eye. His eyes, set over crooked yellow teeth, are dark and mean—the eyes of a killer. Stiles has no illusions about whether or not the man will pull the trigger, he just knows it’s not going to be in time.

 

One of the others, the one tending the rabbit over the fire, maybe, he check, sniggers.

 

Gravel crunches behind him, the only warning he gets before the tip of a knife pricks against his spine at the base of his neck. “Let’s carve ‘im up a bit, Red. Cut those fingers short like they’re s’pposed to be and see if he can still shoot a gun.” A twisted grin spills through in the man’s voice.

 

It’s the first thing Stiles has heard in a long time that makes him want to shiver. He doesn’t, and he doesn’t curl his hands into fists either. It helps that the numbness is spreading.

 

“Get the fuck away from ‘im.” The man with the gun, Red, looks away from Stiles to the man behind him with the knife, snarling so viciously it wouldn’t be a surprise if he wasted a bullet on his _compadre_.

 

Knife Man must get the same message. “’kay, Red. You take care of ‘im.” The knife leaves but Stiles can feel a warm drop dribble down his spine and knows it’s not sweat.

 

His grin widens.

 

Derek’s cabin is close by. The fire’s been burning for at least half an hour and there’s no way Derek wouldn’t have seen it and not investigate. The man likes his privacy and he’s not one for tolerating folk in and around his territory. His night vision may be shot by the fire in front of him, but Stiles knows that somewhere, in the half-lit shadows of the night, Derek’s prowling. Hunting.

 

“Maybe we _should_ carve you, Sh’riff. Cut that smile right off y’ur face,” Red sneers. He’s reaching for the knife on his belt when a howl splits through the night, sharp and wild and _close_.

 

Red jumps, head and attention turning away from Stiles, eyes searching the night, and Stiles moves, jerks up in a fluid motion and barrels forward, ramming his shoulder into the man’s stomach. The gun goes off and he feels a white hot burn at his side that fades almost instantly under the hard hammering of his heart as they crash to the ground, Red flailing under him. It’s feral and violent, but Stiles is all that and Rattler quick. The moment they hit the ground he’s moving again, pushing up enough to pull back and snap his head forward to bring the top of his head cracking against Red’s nose.

 

There’s a crunch and a shout of pain, but Stiles is already on his feet. A solid kick to the side of Red’s head and the man goes still, hands limp on his bleeding face. When he looks up it’s to see a wolf, rearing up on two legs, struggling with the last bandit standing. The struggle is short. One moment they’re locked in combat and the next the wolf is twisting around, massive hands on the man’s head and then there’s a twist and a snap and the man crumples to the ground, dead.

 

The wolf’s head twists toward Stiles, green eyes flashing bright in the firelight, and then Derek is there, the soft, solid pressure of a hand on his shoulder turning him around. A _snick_ and the rope around his wrists falls free and Stiles is bringing his hands up in front of him, rubbing his sore wrists and working feeling back into his fingers. His grin is a mile wide, wider because it has to make up for Derek’s frown. “Oh come on, what’s wrong?” He laughs it out, and then winces, because his side hurts.

 

Derek’s eyes flicker from his face to his body, and then he’s closer, up in Stiles’ space, hand on Stiles’ shirt, pulling it out of his pants and up to reveal a gouging burn of a wound between his hip and ribs. The blood looks black in the night, but it’s not bad.

 

“Stiles.” Coming from Derek’s lips the word sounds animalistic and raw.

 

Stiles shrugs. “It’s nothing.” He’s going to say something else, but he loses sight of what it was when Derek’s thick fingers wrap around his wrist and he starts pulling Stiles in the direction of his cabin. “Hey. Derek. We can’t just leave them here.”

 

“They’re not getting up.”

 

Glancing over his shoulder, Stiles takes in the destruction. Even Red’s chest is still. It’s a surprise, though he’s not sure if it’s an unpleasant one. He lets Derek drag him through the night, through the short gate of Derek’s immediate property, and then into the softly lit interior of Derek’s cabin.

 

It’s maintained and spacious, not that Stiles gets much more of a look at it, because then he’s in the back room, being pushed down to sit on the edge of Derek’s bed. Derek says, “Take of your shirt,” in a low, non-threatening growl, and walks away.

 

Stiles winces as he follows the direction, balls the dirty cotton up and wipes at the still bleeding wound before giving up cleaning and pressing it against his side until Derek comes back through the door, two bowls in hand. The man, still dressed in buckskin leggings and his wolf pelt, walks up to him, presses a knee between Stiles’ and works his legs open before kneeling between them. Now Stiles can see the content of the bowls, water in one and something slick and green-brown and completely foreign in the other—a paste or salve of some kind. He chuckles. “I’m _fine_.”

 

All he gets in response is a grunt, and then Derek’s pulling the shirt away from Stiles’ side and wiping him clean of blood and dirt with a cold damp cloth, but the wound’s still fresh so the blood keeps coming.

 

“It’s not even a real bullet wound, just a graze,” Stiles assures, but he lets Derek do his work unhindered, imagining it’s better than invoking wrath of some kind. “God those men were stupider than a sack of hammers. I wish Allison had been there, show them better than to make fun of a woman with a rifle.”

 

Fingers rub soothing coolness against his side and Stiles can’t help but utter a wordless noise of encouragement. When he glances down Derek looks serious as ever, reaching for a roll of bandages before starting to wrap the wound, sealing in the medicines.

 

“I knew you would come. I couldn’t believe they’d camp so close to someone’s cabin, and they might have been able to do it, but I knew you’d see them.” He chuckles again, shakes his head. “Thank God you hate people.”

 

“Stiles.” Low, resigned maybe, or stern. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell with Derek.

 

“You should have seen their faces when you howled. Best part of my night. Looked just about to piss themselves.” Stiles’ laugh is cut off by a surge of motion and an almost violent pressure of a mouth clashing against his so quick and rough his lips smash against his teeth and he tastes blood. For half a second Derek back’s off and Stile’s laughter bubbles back up, and then the lips are back, one hand wrapped around his bicep, the other curling around the back of his neck, pressing them in closer together.

 

A hot, wet tongue licks at his lips, desperate, and Stiles lets his jaw drop, finds himself overtaken as Derek’s tongue slides inside, messy and wet, licking and prodding, exploring and tasting everything, and through it all his hands tighten on Stiles, as though he’s afraid Stiles will slip through his fingers and fade away.

 

Derek crawls up, pushes Stiles back, presses him into the thin mattress as he kisses, and when he pulls away they’re both panting. Hot, heavy breaths wash over Stiles’ face, and then his neck. Despite the gasping breaths, Derek kisses him, mouths at his neck, down over his shoulder, his chest, hands everywhere, touching and mapping and grasping.

 

At some point Stiles’ smile dissolves, his chuckles leaking away. He reaches up, settles his hands on the man over him. The contact helps some of the crazed apprehension ebb. “It’s okay. I’m okay,” he breathes, but the effect is minimal. His heart lurches and he finds himself pulling at Derek’s shoulders, dragging the man back up so he can look into the wolf’s green eyes.

 

Eyes that are dark with too many emotions for Stiles to sort out.

 

There’s a twisting in his stomach. Murmuring, “Sorry,” is almost an afterthought and it licks away at the tension. “I’m sorry. I’m fine,” he whispers, pulling Derek down, and this time the kiss is less frantic. There’s intent and depth and warmth that just manages to keep the panic at bay. In the quick breaths between kisses, Stiles apologizes. Apologizes until they’re worked back into a frenzy, this one revolving around sweat and heat and need.

 

Derek presses a leg between Stiles’ and he groans, grinds up and down. His hands slide down and scramble at the laces of Derek’s leggings, a new desperation in the air. They’re too complicated, too tight and knotted and he can’t think properly because Derek’s hands are tight around his hips, grinding them together, which is good. Good enough that Stiles blindly mimics him, long fingers wrapping around Derek’s hips and dragging them closer together.

 

Their mouths separate as they pant and gasp wet, ragged breaths, foreheads pressed together, hips thrusting and jerking until Derek’s thrusts become hard, erratic, and he’s tensing, pressing his entire body, hot and slick with a fine sheen of sweat, down against Stiles, breathing Stiles’ name, shuddering.

 

When he’s lax and near limp and starts to push himself up, hand sliding down Stiles’ stomach, Stiles breathes a dry laugh and hooks a leg around Derek’s knee, turns them over, pushes Derek into the bed as he sits back, rips at the buckle of his pants and pull himself free. Derek’s hands are on him before he can get a proper grasp, and he bucks in surprise before letting himself fall forward, planting his hands on either side of Derek’s head. Closing his eyes he shivers as Derek’s hand tightens but doesn’t move. Biting his already bloodied lip, he groans as he draws his hips back and then thrusts forward, fucking into the salve slicked heat of Derek’s hand.

 

He thrusts hard and fast and throws his head back as he comes over Derek’s stomach and chest, a mess he collapses into, uncaring, a moment later. Falling into Derek’s body their lips meet again; hot hands slide up his naked back and into his hair, pressing them impossibly closer.

 

Long minutes later, when the warm exhaustion of post-orgasm meets the shattering crash of the high of the fight, he lays sprawled over Derek, head cushioned on Derek’s broad shoulder. Their breaths are slow and deep, almost in unison. He wraps his fingers around Derek’s wrists and murmurs, “I’m fine,” and tries not to feel anything but this.

 

It’s the first time in a long time he’s had someone to live for. A reason to feel fear for himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://rlnerdgirl.tumblr.com/) for quick and easy updates on what I'm writing!


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